by Paula Guran
“Where do you get your ideas from?” his father asked as he shuffled out to the kitchen for an evening cup of decaf. “I’ve never been much of a creative person.”
Rafe opened his mouth to say that he got his ideas from everywhere, from things he’d seen and dreamed and felt, but then he thought of the other thing his father said. “You made that bumper for the old car out of wood,” Rafe said. “That was pretty creative.”
Rafe’s father grinned and added milk to his cup.
That night Rafe donned the shimmering coat and walked to the woods.
The faerie woman waited for him. She sucked in her breath at the sight of the magnificent coat.
“I must have it,” she said. “You shall have him as before.”
Rafael nodded. Tonight if he could not rouse Lyle, he would have to say goodbye. Perhaps this was the life Lyle had chosen—a life of dancing and youth and painless memory—and he was wrong to try and take him away from it. But he wanted to spend one more night beside Lyle.
She brought Lyle to him and he knelt on the mattress. The faerie woman bent to kiss his forehead, but at the last moment, Lyle turned his head and the kiss fell on his hair.
Scowling, she rose.
Lyle blinked as though awakening from a long sleep, then touched the onyx ring on his finger. He turned toward Rafe and smiled tentatively.
“Lyle?” Rafe asked. “Do you remember me?”
“Rafael?” Lyle asked. He reached a hand toward Rafe’s face, fingers skimming just above the skin. Rafe leaned into the heat, butting his head against Lyle’s hand and sighing. Time seemed to flow backwards and he felt like he was fourteen again and in love.
“Come, Lyle,” said the faery woman sharply.
Lyle rose stiffly, his fingers ruffling Rafe’s hair.
“Wait,” Rafe said. “He knows who I am. You said he would be free.”
“He’s as free to come with me as he is to go with you,” she said.
Lyle looked down at Rafe. “I dreamed that we went to New York and that we performed in a circus. I danced with the bears and you trained fleas to jump through the eyes of needles.”
“I trained fleas?”
“In my dream. You were famous for it.” His smile was tentative, uncertain. Maybe he realized that it didn’t sound like a great career.
Rafe thought of the story he had told Victor about the princess in her louse-skin coat, about locks of hair and all the things he had managed through the eyes of needles.
The faery woman turned away from them with a scowl, walking back to the fading circle of dancers, becoming insubstantial as smoke.
“It didn’t go quite like that.” Rafe stood and held out his hand. “I’ll tell you what really happened.”
Lyle clasped Rafe’s fingers tightly, desperately, but his smile was wide and his eyes were bright as stars. “Don’t leave anything out.”
Holly Black is the author of bestselling contemporary fantasy books for kids and teens. Some of her titles include The Spiderwick Chronicles (with Tony DiTerlizzi), The Modern Faerie Tale series, the Curse Workers series, Doll Bones, The Coldest Girl in Coldtown, the Magisterium series (with Cassandra Clare) and The Darkest Part of the Forest. She has been a finalist for an Eisner Award, and the recipient of the Andre Norton Award, the Mythopoeic Award, and a Newbery Honor. She currently lives in New England with her husband and son in a house with a secret door.
When first considering the content of this volume I knew I wanted to include Kiernan’s brilliant and unique science fictional version of “Little Red Riding Hood.” The paths of needles and pins appear in early oral tellings of the story; the meaning of them and the choice made is a matter of scholarly debate.
The Road of Needles
Caitlín R. Kiernan
1.
Nix Severn shuts her eyes and takes a very deep breath of the newly-minted air filling Isotainer Four, and she cannot help but note the irony at work. This luxury born of mishap. Certainly, no one on earth has breathed air even half this clean in more than two millennia. The Romans, the Greeks, the ancient Chinese, they all set in motion a fouling of the skies that an Industrial Revolution and the two centuries thereafter would hone into a science of indifference. An art of neglect and denial. Not even the meticulously manufactured atmo of Mars is so pure as each mouthful of the air Nix now breathes. The nitrogen, oxygen—four fingers N2, a thumb of 02—and the so on and so on traces, etcetera, all of it transforming the rise and fall of her chest into a celebration. Oh, happy day for the pulmonary epithelia bathed in this pristine blend. She shuts her eyes and tries to think. But the air has made her giddy. Not drunk, but certainly giddy. It would be easy to drift down to sleep, leaning against the bole of a Dicksonia antarctica, sheltered from the misting rainfall by the umbrella of the tree fern’s fronds, of this tree and all the others that have sprouted and filled the isotainer in the space of less than seventeen hours. She could be a proper Rip Van Winkle, as the Blackbird drifts farther and farther off the lunar-Martian rail line. She could do that fabled narcoleptic one better, pop a few of the phenothiazine capsules in the left hip pouch of her red jumpsuit and never wake up again. The forest would close in around her, and she would feed it. The fungi, insects, the snails and algae, bacteria and tiny vertebrates, all of them would make a banquet of her sleep and then, soon, her death.
. . . and even all our ancient mother lost
was not enough to keep my cheeks, though washed
with dew, from darkening again with tears.
Even the thought of standing makes her tired.
No, she reminds herself—that part of her brain that isn’t yet ready to surrender. It’s not the thought of getting to my feet. It’s the thought of the five containers remaining between me and the bridge. The thought of the five behind me. That I’ve only come halfway, and there’s the other halfway to go.
Something soft, weighing hardly anything at all, lands on her cheek. Startled, she opens her eyes and brushes it away. It falls into a nearby clump of moss and gazes up with golden eyes. Its body is a harlequin motley of brilliant yellow and a blue so deep as to be almost black.
A frog.
She’s seen images of frogs archived in the lattice, and in reader files, but images cannot compare to contact with one alive and breathing. It touched her cheek, and now it’s watching her. If Oma were online, Nix would ask for a more specific identification.
But, of course, if Oma were online, I wouldn’t be here, would I?
She wipes the rain from her eyes. The droplets are cool against her skin. On her lips, on her tongue, they’re nectar. It’s easy to romanticize Paradise when you’ve only ever known Hell and (on a good day) Purgatory. It’s hard not to get sentimental; the mind, giddy from clean air, waxes. Nix blinks up at all the shades of green; she squints into the simulated sunlight shining down between the branches.
The sky flickers, dimming for a moment, then quickly returns to its full 600-watt brilliance. The back-up fuel cells are draining faster than they ought. She ticks off possible explanations: there might be a catalyst leak, dinged up cathodes or anodes, a membrane breach impairing ion-exchange. Or maybe she’s just lost track of time. She checks the counter in her left retina, but maybe it’s on the fritz again and can’t be trusted. She rubs at her eye, because sometimes that helps. The readout remains the same. The cells have fallen to forty-eight percent maximum capacity.
I haven’t lost track of time. The train’s burning through the reserves too fast. It doesn’t matter why.
All that matters is that she has less time to reach Oma and try to fix this fuck-up.
Nix Severn stands, but it seems to take her almost forever to do so. She leans against the rough bark of the tree fern and tries to make out the straight line of the catwalk leading to the port ’tainers and the decks beyond. Moving over and through the uneven, ever-shifting terrain of the forest is slowing her down, and soon, she knows, soon she’ll be forced to abandon it for the cramped maintenance cr
awls suspended far overhead. She curses herself for not having used them in the first place. But better late than fucking never. They’re a straight line to the main AI shaft, and wriggling her way through the empty tubes will help her focus, removing her senses from the Edenic seduction of the terraforming engines’ grand wrack-up. If she can just reach the front of this compartment, there will be an access ladder, and cramped or not, the going will surely be easier. She’ll quick it double time or better. Nix wipes the rain from her face again, and clambers over the roots of a strangler fig. Once on the slippery, overgrown walkway, she lowers the jumpsuit’s visor and quilted silicon hood; the faceplate will efficiently evaporate both the rain and any condensation. She does her best to ignore the forest. She thinks, instead, of making dockside, waiting out quarantine until she’s cleared for tumble, earthfall, and of her lover and daughter waiting for her, back in the slums at the edge of the Phoenix shipyards. She keeps walking.
2.
Skycaps launch alone.
Nix closes the antique storybook she found in a curio stall at the Firestone Night Market, and she sets it on the table next to her daughter’s bed. The pages are brown and brittle, and minute bits of the paper flake away if she does not handle it with the utmost care (and sometimes when she does). Only twice in Maia’s life has she heard a fairy tale read directly from the book. On the first occasion, she was two. And on the second, she was six. It’s a long time between lifts and drops, and when you’re a mother who’s also a runner, your child seems to grow up in jittery stills from a time-lapse. Even with her monthly broadcast allotment, that’s how it seems. A moment here, fifteen minutes there, a three-week shore leave, a precious to-and-fro while sailing orbit, the faces and voices trickling through in 22.29 or 3.03 light-minute packages. “Why did she talk to the wolf?” asks Maia. “Why didn’t she ignore him?”
Nix looks up to find Shiloh watching from the doorway, backlit by the glow from the hall. She smiles for the silhouette, then looks back to their daughter. The girl’s hair is as fine and pale as corn silk. She’s fragile, born too early and born sickly, half crippled, half blind. Maia’s eyes are the milky green color of jade.
“Yeah,” says Shiloh. “Why is that?”
“I imagine this wolf was a very charming wolf,” replies Nix, brushing her fingers through the child’s bangs.
Skycaps launch alone.
Sending out more than one warm body, with everything it’ll need to stay alive? Why squander the budget? Not when all you need is someone on hand in case of a catastrophic, systems-wide failure.
So, skycaps launch alone.
“Well, I would never talk to a wolf. If there were still wolves,” says Maia.
“Makes me feel better hearing that,” says Nix. A couple of strands of Maia’s hair come away in her fingers.
“If there were still wolves,” Maia says again.
“Of course,” Nix says. “That’s a given.”
Her lips move. She reads from the old, old book: “Good day, Little Red Riding Hood,” said he. “Thank you kindly, wolf,” answered she.
“Where are you going so early, Little Red Riding Hood?” “To my grandmother’s.”
Nix Severn’s eyelids flutter, and her lips move. The home-away chamber whispers and hums, manipulating hippocampal and cortical theta rhythms, mining long- and short-term memory, spinning dreams into perceptions far more real than dreams or déjà vu. No outbound leaves the docks without at least one home-away to insure the mental stability of skycaps while they ride the rails.
“You should go to sleep now,” Nix tells Maia, but the girl shakes her head.
“I want to hear it again.”
“Kiddo, you know it by heart. You could probably recite it word for word.”
“She wants to hear you read it, fella,” says Shiloh. “I wouldn’t mind hearing it again myself, for that matter.”
Nix pretends to frown. “Hardly fair, two on one like this.” But then she gently turns the pages back to the story’s start and begins it over.
The home-away mediates between limbic and the cerebral hemispheres, directing neurotransmitters and receptors, electrochemical activity and cortisol levels.
There was once a sweet little maid . . .
Shiloh kisses her brow. “Still, hell, I don’t know how you do it, love. All alone and relying on make-believe.”
“It keeps me grounded. You learn the trick, or you wash out fast.”
The skycap’s best friend! Even better than the real thing! Experience the dream and you might never have to come home.
The merch co-ops count on it.
“You could look for other work than babysitting EOTs,” whispers Shiloh. “You’ve got the training. There’s good work you could do in the yards, in assembly or rollout.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation again.”
“But with your experience, Nixie, you could make foreman on the quick.”
“And get maybe a quarter the grade, grinding day and night.”
“We’d see you so much more. That’s all. And it scares me more than you’ll ever know, you hurtling out there alone with nothing but make-believe and plug and pray for waking company.”
Make haste and start before it gets hot, and walk properly and nicely, and don’t run, or you might fall.
“The accidents—”
“—the casts hype them, Shiloh. Half what you hear never happened. You know that. I’ve told you that, how many times now?”
“Going under and never coming up again.”
“The odds of psychosis or a flatline are astronomical.”
Shiloh rolls over, turning her back on Nix. Who sighs and shuts her eyes, because she has prep at six for next week’s launch, and she’s not going to spend the day sleepwalking because of a fight with Shiloh.
. . . and don’t run, or you might fall.
The emergency alarm screams bloody goddamn murder, and an adrenaline injection jerks her back aboard the Blackbird, back to here and now so violently that she gasps and then screams right back at the alarms. But her eyes are trained to see, even through so sudden a disengage, and Nix is already processing the diagnostics and crisis report streaming past her face before the raggedy hitch releases her.
It’s bad this time. It doesn’t get much worse.
Oma isn’t talking.
“Good day, Little Red Riding Hood . . . ”
3.
Of course, it isn’t true that there are no wolves left in the world. Not strictly speaking. Only that, so far as zoologists can tell, they are extinct in the wild. They were declared so more than forty years ago, all across the globe, all thirty-nine or so subspecies. But Maia has a terrible phobia of wolves, despite the fact “Little Red Riding Hood” is her favorite bedtime story. Perhaps it’s her favorite because she’s afraid of wolves. Anyway, Shiloh and I told her that there were no more wolves when she became convinced a wolf was living under her bed, and she refused to sleep without the light on. We suspect she knows, perfectly well, that we’re lying. We suspect she’s humoring us, playing along with our lie. She’s smart, curious, and has access to every bit of information on the lattice, which includes, I’d think, everything about wolves that’s ever been written down.
I have seen wolves. Living wolves.
There are a handful remaining in captivity. I saw a pair when I was younger, still in my twenties. My mother was still alive, and we visited the bio in Chicago. We spent almost an entire day inside the arboretum, strolling the meticulously manicured, tree-lined pathways. Here and there, we’d come upon an animal or two, even a couple of small herds—a few varieties of antelope, deer, and so forth—kept inside invisible enclosures by the shock chips implanted in their spines. Late in the afternoon, we came upon the wolves, at the end of a cul-de-sac located in a portion of the bio designed to replicate the aspen and conifer forests that once grew along the Yellowstone River out west. I recall that from a plaque placed somewhere on the trail. There was an owl, an eagle, ra
bbits, a stuffed bison, and at the very end of the cul-de-sac, the pair of wolves. Of course, they weren’t purebloods, but hybrids. Both were watered-down with German shepherd genes, or husky genes, or whatever.
There was a bench there beneath the aspen and pine and spruce cultivars, and my mother and I sat a while watching the wolves. Though I know that the staff of the park was surely taking the best possible care of those precious specimens, both were somewhat thin. Not emaciated, but thin. “Ribsy,” my mother said, which I thought was a strange word. One I’d never before heard. Maybe it had been popular when she was young.
“They look like ordinary dogs to me,” she said.
They didn’t, though. Despite the fact that these animals had never lived outside pens of one sort or another, there was about them an unmistakable wildness. I can’t fully explain what I mean by that. But it was there. I recognized it most in their amber eyes. A certain feral desperation. They restlessly paced their enclosure; it was exhausting, just watching them. Watching them set my nerves on edge, though my mother hardly seemed to notice. After her remark, how the wolves seemed to her no different than regular dogs, she lost interest and winked on her Soft-See. She had an eyeball conversation with someone from her office, and I watched the wolves. And the wolves watched me.
I imagined there was hatred in their amber eyes.
I imagined that they stared out at me, instinctually comprehending the role that my race had played in the destruction of theirs.
We were here first, they said without speaking, without uttering a sound.
It wasn’t only desperation in their eyes; it was anger, spite, and a promise of stillborn retribution that the wolves knew would never come.
